


I Care

by mysticmajestic



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, First Meetings, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rescue, Suicide Attempt, shangst, war veteran Shiro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-04-24 09:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14352597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticmajestic/pseuds/mysticmajestic
Summary: Lance decides to walk the long way back home, only to stumble across a man on the wrong side of the bridge about to leap to his death.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was going to be a one-shot but I decided to expand it out. Updates should hopefully come every week or so.

There’s something about walking around the city at night that really puts Lance’s mind at ease. The stars above his head, the darkness that surrounds him in the alleyways until he reaches the dimly-lit streets. How empty everything is, and how freeing that feels. He can hear vehicles zooming down the highway in the distance, the screech of tyres or the honking of horns. Alone as he is, there’s still life surrounding him, but he gets to just be. Just for a little while.

He stops by a twenty-four-hour convenience store to get some drinks and snacks before he heads home. It’s empty save for the sour-faced man at the register. When Lance approaches said register to pay, the guy doesn’t so much as glance in his direction, much less speak. That’s fine; Lance doesn’t particularly feel like talking anyway.

Stepping outside with his bag in hand, Lance breathes in the cool night air, enjoys the way it blows through his slightly sweaty hair. It’s a nice enough night to take the long way home. Maybe even pass over St. Lucas bridge just so he can see the ocean. Before his mind is even fully made up, he starts walking in that direction. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

It’s quiet on the bridge, too. A row of street lamps fixed to wall illuminates the area in a soft orange glow. He likes looking at the decorative statues that hang off the edge of the bridge, protected by ten-foot-high railings to prevent anyone from climbing over it. The bridge _does_ have a bit of an unsavoury history, infamous for people who chose to take their own lives by jumping off. Some of them have been found impaled on the sharp rocks at the bottom, pinned in place despite the waves.

Shaking out his hand to shift the bag further up his wrist, he stuffs his hands into his pockets. Whatever residual tension he had drains from his body as he listens to the crash of the waves, inhales the salty scent clinging to the air.

 _I should come out here more often,_ he thinks. It’s half an hour away from his house, so sometimes he just doesn’t have the desire to walk out this far, but every time he does he says that exact thing. Promises himself he’ll make the trek at least once a week, knowing he never hold himself to that. _Honestly, this night is almost too perfect, I—_

If the street lamp hadn’t hit one of the statues at just the right angle, Lance never would have noticed the man clinging to it.

Lance’s heart speeds up in terror. _Shit shit, oh fuck, this guy is gonna kill himself,_ he thinks. _What do I do? What do I fucking do?_

He dismisses his first idea which was to call the police. They’ll take their sweet fucking time and by the time they get here, the man will have already jumped.

 _No, something needs to be done quickly, and I am the only person here that can do that._ The thought simultaneously terrifies and bolsters Lance. He starts to jog over to the man, praying he doesn’t jump off before Lance can get there. He has no idea what he’s going to say, so he’s just gotta wing this.

“Please don’t jump, sir!” Lance calls.

The man jumps in fright and almost slips, but he manages to readjust his grip on the statue in time. _Way to go, Lance. You try to help and you almost make him fall off anyway._

“Who the hell are you?” demands the man. His voice is thick and hoarse from crying. “Leave me alone, go away.”

There’s a cast iron fence separating Lance from the man, but it’s not that high. Dropping his bag, he climbs on top of the bridge, and the pointed tips of the fence only comes up to his waist. It’s more like a half-hearted measure to stop suicides, but anyone who wants to do it only has to work just a little bit harder to climb over it. Case in point; this man.

The man has short black hair styled in an undercut with a white tuft that’s long enough to touch his nose. He’s build like a brick shithouse, too; a white muscle shirt and a pair of tight jeans shows off his muscular form—but his right hand is a prosthetic up to the elbow and his bare skin is littered with scars. Putting two and two together, Lance figures this man must’ve been in the military. 

“I can’t do that,” says Lance. “I’m not gonna walk past while you try and kill yourself.”

“Why?” The man sniffs, then coughs. His back is turned to Lance yet it’s obvious that he’s crying again. “I’m not _worth_ saving. I—I deserve to die—”

“No, you don’t,” says Lance. “Listen, buddy, why don’t you come back over to this side of the bridge and we’ll talk about this, okay?”

The man looks tempted for half a second before fear, so palpable that Lance can almost feel it himself, takes control of him again. “No! I can’t, I don’t deserve to live. Not after—not after—”

There’s confusion there in his eyes, mixed with said fear, as if he’s not quite certain of himself or of his actions. He lets out a little despairing wail and slaps his hand over his forehead.

Lance has never seen anguish like this before. He can’t, in good conscience, leave the man to it now. He must help. “Whatever you think you’ve done, I’m sure it’s fixable—”

“ _Oh yeah_?” says the man disdainfully. “Can you bring someone back from the dead?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, merely snorts and continues, “I didn’t think so.”

 _Veteran, scars, prosthetic arm, and grief-stricken over a dead comrade_. Someone’s died for this man, Lance is sure of it. He keeps pushing, hoping his instincts are leading him to make the right call. If he ends up making this guy jump off, he won’t forgive himself.

“I’m sure it’s not _that_ bad,” he says.

The man laughs. It’s a twisted, tortured, ugly sound that makes Lance’s skin crawl. “I told him to leave it, you know? Leave the bomb, it’s too late. Gotta get out of here. But he…he turned back. Wanted to be the hero, probably. I went back to get him. Too late. The bomb went off. He died instantly, and I’m left with this—this fucking _thing_.” He throws up his prosthetic hand.

Oh. A comrade didn’t die for this man; a comrade that this man was _trying to save_ died, and he’s beating himself up over it. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I should have been faster!”

“Then you probably would have died too.”

“I _should_ be dead!”

“No, you shouldn’t be.”

“Why the fuck do you even care?” the man snarls. But there’s something in his voice, something tentatively hopeful, like he’s been waiting for someone to give a damn this whole time. “Just get out of here.”

Lance shakes his head. “I’m not leaving until you come back over the bridge.”

“Then you’ll be waiting forever; I’m not coming back over.”

“If you jump then I’m going to have to climb over and jump after you.” Lance really hopes it won’t come to that. The fall alone might not necessarily kill him if he does it right, but it would hurt. And that’s if he’s lucky to escape the rocks. “I’m a great swimmer; I was practically born on a beach.”

“No one cares. You’re the third person to go past since I came here. You shouldn’t care either. Go away and leave me to die. You’d be doing the goddamn world a favour.”

“But I do care.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I want to.”

The man turns his head to look at him, and Lance is met with one of the most beautiful faces he’s ever seen. His breath is literally stolen from his body. The man is Asian with a chiselled jaw full of stubble, dark eyes, and a scar running over the bridge of his nose. The skin around his eyes and nose is puffy and red. There are dried tears on his cheeks.

Suddenly, Lance hates the people that came before him, the ones that saw this man and kept on walking. How anyone could just ignore such obvious pain is beyond him.

Lance holds his hand out. “I want to get to know you. I care. Whatever it is that you’ve been bottling up that got you to this point, I want to know about. Please, just take my hand and come back over here.”

The man swallows convulsively. “I don’t—I don’t even know your name.”

There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes, one that spurs Lance on. It’s as if this man has been waiting for someone to give a damn, rather than the correct moment to throw himself off the bridge to his death. And Lance gives a damn alright. He won’t let this man die.

“Lance Martinez. I’m twenty-three, I go to college where I’m majoring in astrophysics. I live alone in a shitty apartment I can barely afford, since my job at Paws & Beans—local cat café—doesn’t pay much, even with tips. I’m the youngest child of four. My family immigrated from Cuba when I was six.” He grins at the man’s stunned expression. “What about you?”

“T-Takashi Shirogane,” says the man, like he can’t believe that Lance is a real person and not some near-death mirage. “But everyone just calls me Shiro.”

He offers no more information about himself. Lance knows better than to ask.

“Nice to meet you, Shiro.” Lance grins from ear to ear. “Fancy coming over on this side of the fence now and telling me more about you?” He wiggled his fingers at Shiro, hand still outstretched. Shiro hesitates. “C’mon. I won’t bite.”

After a long pause, Shiro carefully starts to make his way back to the fence. When he’s close enough, he grabs Lance’s hand for support with his prosthetic hand, the metal cool to the touch. Lance has never seen a prosthetic like this up close; it must be attached to his nerves, since it acts like a real hand would. Only the richest or veterans of war get this kind of prosthetic over the normal ones. It only got out of the beta testing stage around six years ago.

 “Ah, shit!”

“ _Mierda_!”

Lance is brought abruptly out of his reverie as Shiro slips and falls, the weight of him yanking painfully on Lance’s arm, causing him to yelp in surprise and pain. He knows instantaneously that he can only hold onto him for so long, praying that the moment he’s forced to let go or pull his arm out of its socket never comes.

“I’ve got you!” he grunts, as Shiro’s spare hand scrambles for purchase on the fence. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna let go!”

“Lance—fuck, shit—I can’t really get hold of— _damn it_!”

“I’m not letting go! Try and get your feet on the edge, or something.”

Shiro is pale-faced and terrified. “That’ll put more strain on you.”

“I don’t care, I can take it! I’m not gonna let you fall, Shiro.”

“But—”

“Just do it!”

Shaking his head in defeat, Shiro says, “I’m not worth the effort, Lance. You should just let go. I’ll only get you hurt.”

“Shut the fuck up! You’re worth the effort—I wouldn’t be helping you right now if I didn’t believe it!” There’s no way Shiro can’t pull himself up quickly so that the strain on Lance’s arm only lasts a few seconds. Shiro is giving up way too fucking quickly. Lance isn’t going to let that slide. “Now just _do_ what I _say_ and _get up here_.”

There’s something in the command that kicks Shiro into gear. He grunts as he swings his legs up, planting his feet on the very edge of the bridge. Licking his dry lips, Lance does his best to hold back the grimace as Shiro’s weight pulls on his arm. He wishes he was able to get his other hand around Shiro’s wrist, but that leaves him at risk of being impaled by the fence. His only option is to bear the weight as best as he can and not let go.

Shiro tries to grasp the statue with his spare hand. His fingertips just barely graze it.

“I need to use your arm to pull myself up properly,” he says reluctantly, his eyes puffy and red, full of shame. A faint sheen of sweat glimmers on his forehead. “Just until I can grab hold of something else.”

“Do it,” says Lance. His arm feels like its going to pop out of the joint, but he’s not going to hurry Shiro along. Not when he’s liable to make a critical mistake. “Do whatever you gotta do.”

It’s clear that Shiro wishes Lance would just let him go and spare them both the trouble, but all the same Shiro bends to Lance’s will. He swings up with such agility that Lance shouldn’t find surprising but does, and with a bit of awkward manoeuvring and much pain on Lance’s account, has an arm wrapped around the statue.

As much as it would make sense for Lance to let go right now, he doesn’t; he still doesn’t trust that Shiro won’t take the opportunity to jump to his death the moment he realises Lance has no hold on him now. He won’t leave anything to chance when it comes to a suicidal person.

“Come on,” he says. “Climb over now.”

“O-okay.”

It’s an awkward scramble to get Shiro over the fence, but they manage. Lance lets go of Shiro’s arm only to grab him by the waist as he climbs over, making sure he doesn’t slide down and injure himself on the bridge’s spokes.

“There,” says Lance, assisting Shiro to sit on the ground. He rubs his hand in soothing circles over Shiro’s back. “You’re alright now.”

“I—I—” Shiro bursts into tears, curling into a ball and hiding his face in his lap. Tears prickle Lance’s eyes as he scoots over, wrapping an arm around Shiro’s shoulders. He can’t imagine the inner turmoil Shiro’s going through, so he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push for Shiro to speak. Knows he’ll come around in his own time.

Cars drive down the street at random, a few of the drivers glancing out of their windows at the two men sitting curled up on the inside edge of the bridge. They don’t stop. A few times, people walk down the sidewalk only to spot them and cross over to the other side. If they happen to be on the other side already, they stare or nudge their companions and point.

Lance knows what they’re thinking. This bridge is, after all, known for its high rate of suicide. Every single one of these people must know either he or Shiro tried to kill themselves tonight, but none of them comes over to check on them. Would any of them have stopped if Shiro was still hanging off the outside of the bridge? Or would they have stared at him as they passed right on by?

 _Why should I be the one to do it?_ they all seem to say. _Someone else will come around. They’ll help him. It shouldn’t be up to me._

It infuriates Lance. He scoots closer to Shiro until they’re pressed side-to-side and holds Shiro tighter as he cries.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro chokes out finally, lifting his head from his lap to mop the tears away with trembling hands.

“You don’t have anything to apologise for,” says Lance.

“I do. I’m weak and pathetic—god, just look at me. Please b-believe me when I say I’m usually stronger than this.”

“Maybe so, but you don’t always have to be.”

Shiro continues babbling as if he hadn’t heard Lance speak. “If Matt ever found out about this…”

“Listen,” says Lance. “You don’t have anything to apologise for, and you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Everyone has a breaking point. Everyone deserves to feel vulnerable sometimes.”

“I don’t.”

The utter conviction in those words send chills rolling down Lance’s spine.

“Why not?” he whispers.

“Huh?” Shiro blinks in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you deserve to feel vulnerable sometimes? You’re human.”

“I just…I just don’t.”

“Bullshit. That’s bullshit, Shiro. I’m not taking that answer.” Lance tightens his hold of Shiro when he flinches, as if Lance had struck him. “I’m not going to push, but I’d really like to know why. Why you don’t deserve to feel vulnerable; why you got on this bridge in the first place. Like I said,” he adds quickly, spotting fresh tears dripping down Shiro’s cheeks, “I’m not going to push. You don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable, but I’d really like to know.”

Shiro’s silent for a moment, his eyes unfocused like he’s in the midst of a memory. Lance doesn’t think he’s going to talk, and that’s fine because he really doesn’t have to, only for Shiro to break the silence.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay, I’ll tell you. It started when…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised the chapter would be out the next day, and now it's been a week and I've only just managed to finish the chapter. Oops.

“Atten _tion_!”

Shiro snaps into formation along with hundreds of other cadets. Pride simmers inside of him, expanding like a balloon. It’s been gruelling, but he’s here. He’s graduating. He just barely listens to the officer delivering the speech at the podium.

When the ceremony is over, Shiro’s accosted by Keith, Matt, and his beaming grandparents, getting enough rib-breaking hugs to last him a lifetime.

His grandparents give him presents to celebrate his graduation; a gold watch from his grandfather that had actually belonged to his grandfather’s grandfather, and a Laughing Buddha statue from his grandmother.

“If you rub the belly of the statue,” she says to him, “it is said that it will bring wealth, good luck, and prosperity. That is everything I want for you and more, my dear. Your parents would be so proud of you.”

He hugs them both tight. And later that night he rubs the Buddha statue, praying that his grandmother was right.

 

* * *

 

Keith enters military school two years later. Inside those two years, Shiro was deployed to two separate bases for six months at a time, only able to communicate via video phone.

“How’s it going so far?” asks Shiro one night. He’s currently halfway across the globe, up at midnight to take this call with Keith, since it’s currently 8AM where he is, despite having a 6AM start himself. It’s been a few weeks. “Everything working out okay?”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Keith, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Making any friends?”

“Not really. I mean, I’m not here to make friends. I don’t need them.”

“Yes, you will.” Shiro rolls his eyes fondly. “They’re your comrades, Keith. Befriend them. Or at least talk to them every once in a while. It’s not healthy to shut yourself off from people.”

“What do I even say to them? It’s been two weeks. They probably think I’m some loner kid or something, and they won’t want anything to do with me.”

“Well saying ‘hi’ is a good place to start.”

Keith glares at him. “I’m being serious, Shiro.”

“So am I! Just start talking to them, be friendly, and the rest will work itself out from there.” Shiro wishes he could put a hand on Keith’s shoulder or something. He always seems to respond better to that kind of thing than just by words alone. “Anyway, I need to go to bed. It’s really late. I technically shouldn’t even be doing this right now.”

Sighing, Keith mumbles, “Alright.”

“I’ll talk to you soon,” Shiro promises. “Bye, Keith.”

“Bye, Shiro.”

The next time they talk, Keith informs him of the two new friends he has made. Shiro couldn’t be prouder.

 

* * *

 

Shiro’s there on the day Keith graduates and he couldn’t be prouder. Watches as Keith turns to another cadet and grins as the ceremony ends. After congratulating each other, the cadets break apart to go in search of their families. As Shiro weaves his way through the crowd of people, he sees Keith looking around for him.

“Oi!” says Shiro once he’s right behind Keith, who jumps a foot in the air and whips around, fist raised. “Good to see you’re as sharp as ever, runt.”

“Not a runt!” Keith leaps into Shiro’s arms, choking the life out of him. “Besides, I came close to beating your combat scores several times. If a supposed runt could do that, you better pick up your game, Shirogane.”

“True.” As they part from the hug, Shiro grins and musses Keith’s hair, earning an indignant squawk and his hand pushed away. “But seriously, I’m proud of you, Keith. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Despite rolling his eyes fondly, a smile twitches at Keith’s lips. “Hey, listen, come meet with my friends over there…”

Shiro allows Keith to excitedly drag him around to meet his friends, all of whom are a bit starry-eyed because Shiro kinda left behind a reputation in the school with his combat scores that no one has been able to outdo. Not even Keith, who’d made it his mission. A boy even asks for Shiro’s autograph which he awkwardly gives, much to Keith’s amusement.

Matt pays for their celebratory dinner that night, seeing as how he couldn’t make it to the ceremony because of work.

“Katie wanted to come,” says Matt, when Keith asked after her, “but she got in trouble with Dad because she hacked into a government database and almost got caught. She’s grounded for at least six months.”

“Sounds like something she would do,” says Keith with a fond eyeroll.

“Yeah,” says Matt, grinning. “She could’ve taken the whole ‘no going outside except for school’ punishment without a problem if Dad hadn’t decided to track what she does online now, as well as take the computer away from her at eight o’clock. She’s going _insane_. But enough of that—Keith, now that you’ve graduated, what do they plan on doing with you guys?”

Shiro settles back in his chair and lets Keith’s chatter go in one ear and out the other, warm and sleepy from the alcohol he’s been drinking. Just revels in the love he has for his found-family.

It doesn’t get much better than this.

 

* * *

 

Everything is alright. Good. Until it’s not.

Shiro’s happy. Safe. Until he’s not.

A year passes. Keith’s deployed with Shiro to the same location. They’re happy, they’re excited. For once they get to work together.

Now, Shiro wishes that Keith had been deployed somewhere else.

 

* * *

 

_Pain, pain, pain._

Explosion.

“You’ll be alright, Shirogane.”

_Pain, pain, pain._

Ground, stretcher, pale faces.

“You’re going to be alright. We’ve got you now. Just rest.”

Keith? “K-Keith…where…”

No answer. Unconsciousness.

Bright light. Deafening noise. Helicopter?

“Heavy blood loss…arm might not be…discharged?”

Where’s Keith? Tries to signal them with his right hand. It won’t move.

 _Pain, pain_ —he tries to move his arm again— _PAIN, PAIN, PAIN_.

“Shirogane, don’t--!”

He slips unconscious again.

 

* * *

 

Shiro wakes up to the bright white of his hospital room, processing it only for a second before he chokes on something shoved down his throat. Someone to his left calls out in alarm, jumps to their feet. But Shiro doesn’t care. He grabs the tube, tries to rip it out. A hand grabs his, forcing it back to the bed as people flood into the room.

_Get it out, GET IT OUT._

“His readings are good,” someone says. “It’s safe for extubation.”

They try to calm him. Explains that the tube is in because he’d had difficulty breathing, he’d needed assistance. Inhaled too much smoke.

 “Calm down, calm down, we’re going to get it out,” a nurse is saying. She puts her hand on his arm only to cry out as he instinctively twists out and seizes her by the wrist. But he’s too weak to hurt her, so she merely rests her hand on his and adds, “We can’t take it out if you keep panicking.”

“It’s okay, Shiro,” says a familiar voice. It’s Matt. Matt, who he hasn’t seen for months, not since just before his last tour. What’s he doing here? “Just let them work.”

Against his better judgement, he relaxes and allows the medical personnel to take the tube from his mouth. It’s uncomfortable, he chokes, holds himself back from just tearing it out himself because they’re fucking _taking too long_.

The medical personnel hovers around him for a while, asking questions, taking vitals. Shiro answers them on autopilot, trying to ground himself in the real world. In active duty one minute, in a hospital the next. What happened? And where’s—

“Keith?” he rasps, the moment they’re gone.

Matt’s lips twist. It’s not a smile. “Want some ice chips?”

“ _Keith_.”

“Your throat must be on fire right now. Or dry as hell—”

It’s both but Shiro doesn’t care. He chokes out, “Where’s Keith?” and grimaces his way through a painful coughing fit.

Matt clears his throat, uncomfortable. “Listen, if you can have some ice chips for me, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” He shakes the Styrofoam cup in Shiro’s face. “Please.”

If that’s what it takes to get answers…Shiro nods his head, eats the ice chips dutifully until he’s had enough. Handing the cup back he asks, “Keith?”

“What’s the last thing you remember about that day?”

Closing his eyes, Shiro tries to think back.

 

_The heat, the fear. Don’t do it, don’t do it._

_Screams of fear, loud even over the tanks in the distance. People in the building they can’t clear. People living in an active warzone because where else can they go? A suicide bomber has walked in, set off the timer on his vest, and barred all the exits with steel chains. Enjoys the way that people panic and scream. The ground around the outside of the building is littered with bodies of people who preferred to jump to their death from the upper levels rather than be blown up._

_They had cleared out the bottom level as much as they could, but they can’t do anything for the upper levels._

_They even must watch where they step in case of landmines. There’s nothing they can do for those people. Not without throwing their own lives away, and even still it could all be for naught. It’s unfortunate, but they must leave those people where they are._

_Keith was not part of this mission. He’s joined them from his own mission, clearing another building of people, disposing of the suicide bomber. One hundred percent successful, no casualties suffered. That’s why he stops when he hears the screams inside the building. His jaw drops as he turns to Shiro, eyes wide with horrified disbelief._

_“There are people still in there?”_

_Shiro knows what Keith’s about to do. He lunges forward and grabs at Keith as he turns, tries to run back to the building. But Keith’s persistent, won’t let Shiro get a solid grip on him._

_“Keith, no, it’s too late—come back!” he begs. Digs his feet in, but Keith’s strong enough to drag him. “You can’t do anything for them!”_

_He wrestles with Keith, tries to hold him back. But holding Keith is like holding a wet eel; he slips easily from Shiro’s grasp._

_“I can save them, Shiro!” As he speaks, he sweeps Shiro’s legs out from under him. “Trust me!”_

_“It’s going to explode at any minute, I can’t—Keith, no!”_

_Keith’s already running toward the ruins of the house, spurred on by the screams of the family trapped inside. He’s inside in the time it takes for Shiro to get to his feet. Tries to follow, but someone grabs him, shouts, “No, Shirogane! He’s as good as dead.”_

_He shoves them away, races for the house. If he can just get Keith out of there, if the bomb gives them a little more time to get away before it explodes, they can—_

_He’s almost on the broken doorstep when the building explodes, and everything goes black._

“Shiro, stop! You’re going to hurt yourself— _Shiro_!”

“ _KEITH_!” Shiro screams at the top of his lungs. “ _KEITH! KEITH! NO! KEITH_!” Rips everything away from him, tries to scramble off the bed, but when he tries to put his right arm down he’s suddenly on the floor, jerking and thrashing as excruciating agony shoots from his right shoulder and down his back. There’s an odd, high-pitched wailing echoing through the room, and it takes him a second to realise its coming from him.

“Help! Someone help!” Matt sobs. He pins Shiro to the floor as best he can. “Will someone fucking help us, god-fucking-damn it!”

Medical personnel rush back in. The world spins as they hoist him onto the bed, pins his flailing limbs down.

“Sedate him,” someone says.

“No, no, where’s Keith— _tell me where he is!_ Keep AWAY FROM ME with that needle! Is he alive? IS HE ALIVE? DON’T FUCKING SEDATE ME JUST TELL ME HE’S OKAY! MATT! _MATT_ , IS KEITH ALIVE, FUCKING _TELL ME HE’S ALIVE_. MATT! _MA_ —” He lets out a hoarse scream as he feels the prick of a needle in his neck. “N-no,” he whimpers, as black spots bleed into his vision, luring him into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

Shiro’s right arm is missing just below the shoulder.

It’s a discovery he makes when he wakes up the second time, reaching up to scratch an itch only to touch a bandage-covered stump. He follows it down until there’s nothing but empty air where his arm should be.

All he can do is laugh.

It’s a manic, possessed laugh of a man who’s lost everything in one fell swoop. Wakes up Matt, who’s been sleeping with his head against Shiro’s bed, and he stands. Looks nervously down at Shiro as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Keith’s dead, isn’t he?” asks Shiro, and then dissolves into yet more laughter. “Keith’s dead, my arm is gone. I couldn’t do a fucking thing to stop it.”

“Sh-Shiro…”

“Fucking _useless_ is what I am,” he spits out, and he’s not laughing anymore. His breath hitches painfully on a sob. “I should have stopped him—I could have stopped him. Now he’s _dead_ because of me.”

“You didn’t tell him to go back into that building…”

“But I didn’t _stop_ him. And now he’s _dead_.” Tears streak down his cheeks. He whimpers out, “I didn’t stop him, Matt! Why couldn’t I stop him?”

Matt’s crying too, reaching out to take Shiro’s only hand. “It’s not your fault.”

But it is. It is, it is, _it is_ his fault. And now Shiro must live with the guilt that his best friend is dead because of _him_. He gets to live on whilst someone as pure and good as Keith is gone forever. How the fuck is any of this fair?

Oh Keith, why did you have to turn back?

 

* * *

 

It’s like a kick in the teeth when he’s honourably discharged.

No arm, no job, no Keith. To add a little more insult to injury, he finds out that he has a scar running over the bridge of his nose—an injury that could have been the death of him, but now has only ruined his sinuses. Later on, when he undresses, he’ll find his body littered with more scars. He still has his life and his body mostly intact, but its sustained its damages.

Everything important to him as been snatched away from him in the blink of an eye. Had the world at his fingertips, now it’s broken at his feet.

It’s been a few weeks since he woke up, discharged from the hospital a few days ago. Matt pushes him around in a wheelchair for now, considering he’s still too weak to walk. Today’s the day of not only his ceremony to honourably discharge him; it’s also the day of Keith’s military funeral.

The day passes by in a blur. He won’t remember much of this day aside from getting his medal, accepting the flag that had adorned Keith’s coffin along with a picture of Keith in uniform just before he was deployed for the first time, grinning ear to ear. Shiro turns that photo on its front so that he can’t see it. Can’t see the hope in Keith’s gaze, the promise of a good future that’s been taken away from him way too soon. He wonders if there was even enough of Keith’s body to bury, then shoves that morbid thought out of his mind before it sets him off.

This should not be the price to pay for trying to save human lives.

Matt makes the small talk, the excuses for why Shiro appears near catatonic even though he’s awake. The replies Matt gets are full of false sympathy that makes Shiro want to punch them when he overhears a few.

None of them understand this pain. Not a single one of them. They would never speak so candidly about Shiro’s loss if they had also experienced what it’s like be responsible for the death of their best friend, their pseudo brother. Fuck them all.

 

Time just. Passes.

Continues on without Keith.

But Shiro forgot how to do that.

Now he drifts.

 

Shiro is “rewarded” with a prosthetic arm. It’s cybernetic, connects perfectly to ruined nerves, and can’t be detached. Works just like a regular hand would. If the arm wasn’t made of metal and he wasn’t plagued with nightmares every night, he could’ve forgotten his original arm had blown off.

“State of the art technology!” declares the prosthetist proudly, during one of the maintenance checks. Not that Shiro cares.

It had taken Matt weeks to convince Shiro to take this offer.

_“You’ll feel better if you do!” he says. “You’ve been struggling to do things one-handed, you could—”_

_“Do you honestly believe that?” Shiro spits. “Do you honestly think that this is going to make me feel better? Keith’s still going to be_ dead _. Getting my arm back won’t change anything.”_

 _“Keith wouldn’t want you to wallow in self-pity like this,” Matt retorts, one of the few times he lowers himself to Shiro’s level and responds with the same amount of vitriol. It takes Shiro aback. “He would want you to take this offer and get your fucking arm back. If you’re not going to do this for yourself, then do it for_ him _.”_

A week later, Shiro meekly accepts the offer and goes through the necessary surgery. Matt has work and can’t stay at the hospital, so he drops him off and comes back later once his shift is over. It’s hours after the surgery has been completed, the anaesthetic having worn off and Shiro’s been left to gradually wake up on his own. It’s hard to look at Matt’s proud grin, hard to listen to the way he eagerly rants about the technology practically welded to Shiro’s arm.

Shiro can’t help but think that he’s made the second biggest mistake in his life, but just like last time, it’s way too late to undo the damage. Like everything else in his life, he just has to live with it.

God-fucking-damn it. 

 

Matt takes care of Shiro. Gives him the spare bedroom in his apartment. Coaxes Shiro to eat and drink, to bathe and change out of his clothes when depression has sunk its claws in so deep that nothing but bleak despair can reach him through the apathy. Matt makes Shiro go out for walks around the block, or just sit in the porch swing in the sunshine.

Matt does everything he can for Shiro, but it’s not enough.

It’s not enough because Keith’s not here.

 

One night, three months after waking up in the hospital the first time, Shiro’s sick of drifting, of being useless. Sick of living. He should just go end it all.

The more he entertains the thought, the more he likes it. Why should a useless waste of space like him get to live and breathe? He should have died the moment the bomb exploded.

It’s nearing midnight. Matt’s asleep. The timing is perfect. Shiro takes nothing with him, just walks out of the house and down the street.

He finds the bridge half an hour later. It’s perfect. The water is a dark navy, rocks poking through the surface. If he gets lucky, maybe he’ll impale himself on one of them. An agonising death is what he deserves. He climbs over the railing, clutches hold of the statue to get his balance, and then—

He doesn’t jump. Why doesn’t he jump?

His phone rings. Pulling it out of his pocket, he sees that it’s Matt calling. He contemplates chucking the phone into the water but he doesn’t. Lets it ring out then stuffs it into his pocket. It rings again, then again, but each time he ignores it. Why Matt decided to wake up in the middle of the night and check on Shiro is beyond him.

“Who’s that on the bridge?” a woman asks. She’s linked arm-in-arm with a man around her age, giving Shiro an odd look.

“Who cares? Danni, don’t look at him.”

“Is he going to jump?”

“Probably. Let’s just keep going.”

“…Okay.”

Not a minute later, a man on a bicycle rides by. He stares at Shiro curiously, then shrugs and pedals harder, disappearing from sight in a matter of seconds.

They don’t care. No one cares. He should just jump and get it over with. He should—

“Please don’t jump, sir!”

And that is how Shiro met Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr @mystic-majestic.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter for now, just to get it out there so it stops collecting dust on my hard-drive. But I've decided not to stop this at five chapters but continue on with it. It'll likely go on for about 20+. There's so much I want to do with this!

Lance blinks tears from his eyes as Shiro’s story ends. He wants to reach out and put a hand on Shiro’s shoulder to comfort him, somehow, but he doesn’t dare. The hunch of Shiro’s shoulders, the way he leans away from Lance, screams ‘don’t touch me’ and Lance respects that.

Instead, he scrambles over to his discarded bag of snacks and comes back, pulling out a drink and offering it to Shiro. Shiro lifts his head slightly, staring at the drink for a long moment as if wondering what he’s supposed to do with it, then takes it and drinks long and deep until a quarter of it is gone.

“Thank you,” he mutters, handing it back. Lance screws on the top and then sets it in between them, hoping that Shiro knows he can grab it whenever he wants. Then Shiro drops his head into his hands. “God, what the fuck am I doing?” he whispers hoarsely. “Listen, I’m sorry, I…didn’t mean to dump all that on you. You didn’t need to hear all that bullshit.”

“Don’t apologise,” says Lance, almost too sharply. “I’m glad I was here to listen. Just like I’m also glad you didn’t jump off the bridge.” Shiro flinches, still hiding his face in his hands. “Sometimes the easiest person to talk about your problems with is someone you don’t even know. And you know what? What you’ve been through fucking sucks, man. No one should have to go through that.”

“Yeah, well, someone had to, I guess…Maybe I—maybe I was just too happy.”

Lance frowns, canting his head. “What do you mean?”

“Everything— _god_ , everything was perfect. I had everything I wanted. K-Keith was happy, too. He worked so hard to get where he was. And _this_ is how it all fucking ends up.”

Lance doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays quiet. There’s nothing about his own life that he can use to relate, in any way, to Shiro’s. A string of exes, a few of which resulted from traumatic breakups, and the long, slow death of his beloved grandmother a year and a half ago doesn’t quite scale up when compared to losing your pseudo-brother in a bomb explosion. 

A phone rings, loud and jarring in the silence. Heart leaping to his throat, Lance pats down his pockets until he finds his phone, only to realise that it isn’t his that’s ringing. Turning to Shiro, who’s muttering under his breath, Lance sees him pull a phone out from his back pocket. Without a word or even a glance in Lance’s direction, Shiro hands it over.

“I don’t wanna talk to him,” he mumbles. “But if I ignore the call, he’ll just spam me until I answer.”

Lance takes the phone gingerly, as if it will—actually, no. He’s not going to use that phrase. It sounds massively insensitive given the circumstances. The caller ID reads: “Matt.”

“Hello,” says Lance nervously, accepting the call.

“Shiro, where—wait, who the hell are you?” demands ‘Matt’ on the other end. His slightly nasally voice is suspicious, almost fearful. “Where’s Shiro?”

“He’s here with me, don’t worry.”

“And who are you?”

“Oh, right!” Lance almost slaps his forehead. “My name is Lance. I’m with Shiro right now. He’s okay, I promise.” Should he tell Matt where they were? No _,_ he decides a second later. It might cause Shiro more distress. _Better not_.

“Put him on the phone. Now.”

Taking the phone from his ear and placing his hand over the microphone, Lance says, “Shiro, he wants to speak with you. He’s kinda, uh, adamant about it.”

Shiro shakes his head.

Lance puts the phone back to his ear. “He said no.”

“I don’t give a damn what he said,” snaps Matt. “I need to know he’s okay—from his own mouth,” he adds, as if sensing that Lance was about to remind him that he’d already said Shiro was okay, “and not from a total stranger.”

“Please, Matt, I can’t,” says Lance. “I’m not going to force him to talk if he doesn’t want to.”

At this, Shiro sits up straight, surprise etched onto his ruddy, tear-stained cheeks. He sniffles, rubbing away a thin line of snot that dribbled out of his nose. _Are these guys even close friends?_ Lance wonders.

“Wait a minute.” Lance lowers the phone before Matt can answer. “Shiro, can I take a photo of you? On your phone of course. If I send the picture to Matt to confirm you’re okay, he might stop hounding me and believe that everything is fine.” Relatively speaking, of course.

“Do whatever you want.”

Despite having been given consent, the dully-spoken words cause Lance to hesitate for a few seconds. But when Shiro doesn’t retract the statement, or make any moves to take the phone away, Lance takes the photo and sends it to Matt. The last message between the two of them was dated two weeks ago: _Shiro—gone to work. Breakfast is on the table. Please eat it this time. Matt._   Well that settled Lance’s doubts about whether Matt’s all that close to Shiro; you must be close to someone if you’re reminding them to eat. Plus, it sounds like they live together.

“Did you get that?” he asks Matt. “I sent you a photo of him. Proof that he’s alive and unharmed.” _Not like I’d stand a chance if I wanted to hurt him. He’s built like a brick shithouse and could probably snap me in half without breaking a sweat._ Lance takes half a second to appreciate Shiro’s biceps before getting serious again. Just in time to realise Matt hasn’t answered him. “Matt?”

“Why is he crying?” asks Matt. His tone gets more urgent with every passing second. “And why are you on St. Lucas bridge? What is going on?”

“Listen, I can’t explain what’s going on. It’s not my place. Next time you see Shiro, you can ask him. But now is not the best time. I’m hanging up now.”

“No, wait—”

Lance ignores him and disconnects the call. “I hope I don’t get in trouble for that.”

“He’ll get over it,” Shiro mumbles.

“We shouldn’t stay here, though,” says Lance. Glancing around, he notices that the bridge is completely empty except for them. Yet he couldn’t help the sneaking suspicion that they were going to be in the way if someone came along, even pressed to the wall of the bridge as they were. “How about we go for a walk around? Might do us some good.”

His suggestion is met with a long silence. Sighing, Lance gives up on the idea, sitting back. If Shiro wants to sit here for a while, then that’s what they’ll do. Lance doesn’t have anywhere to be or anything important to do. This is fine.

Then Shiro stands. He starts walking before Lance can even think to scramble to his feet.

“Where do you want to go?” he asks, catching up to Shiro.

“Around,” he mutters. “Then go home. You don’t have to follow me if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Lance chirps. “Let’s go!”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it! Follow me on Tumblr [@mystic-majestic](http://mystic-majestic.tumblr.com/)


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